The German Suitcase (6 page)

“It’s a moot point, anyway, Mr. Steinbach,” Stacey said, getting into it gently.

Steinbach stiffened and kicked back in his chair. “Don’t sugarcoat it. He’s dead? He’s dying? What?”

“No, we found him and he’s fine,” Stacey replied. “But we got turned down. He’s not going to sign on.”

Steinbach’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “The good doctor said no?”

“His son did,” Tannen replied.

“Just like that?” Steinbach said, sounding incredulous. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Tannen gave him the data Stacey had printed-out from Google. As Steinbach scanned the pages, Tannen briefed him on Dan Epstein’s refusal, mentioning his daughter’s wedding, and his intention to acquire the suitcase and its contents.

“It’s on me. I blew it,” Steinbach said, shaking the pages in frustration. “This is the Jake Epstein I was on those charity boards with. Haven’t seen him for years.” He emitted a deflated sigh before his busy eyes came alive and he cocked his head at a thought. “Did you say his granddaughter’s getting married?”

“Yeah. In a couple of weeks. Temple of Dendur yet.”

Steinbach’s expression brightened. His eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “Don’t let that suitcase out of your sight, Bart. This isn’t over.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nope,” Steinbach replied, stabbing a finger at his intercom. “Yeah, I need Bernice.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

At about the same time Professor Gerhard was taking evasive measures on Munich’s snowy streets, Dr. Maximilian Kleist, Captain, Waffen SS was with his parents in the library of the family’s 19th Century townhouse. The walls, crafted of Bavarian black walnut, were inlaid with rosettes as were the coffers between the finely detailed ceiling beams. A circular staircase led to a cast iron balcony, making the upper tier of volumes accessible. Blackout drapes, drawn at night to ward off Allied airstrikes, and a book entitled German War Christmas—published by the Nazi Propaganda Office and distributed at home and at the front—were the only evidence of the War.

Konrad Kleist, a tall man with a strong profile and steel-gray hair that swept back in perfect waves, stood next to a marble fireplace. ‘Concert,’ a large canvas by the expatriate Russian, and one-time Munich resident, Wassily Kandinsky, who had recently died in Paris, hung above the mantle. Konrad’s wife, Gisela, an elegant, fine-boned woman who favored Chanel suits, was seated on an Art Nouveau sofa. A black German Shepherd lay at her feet. Max, who had changed from his uniform into a tweed hunting jacket and corduroy trousers, leaned against the piano, smoking a cigarette. A cello that dated to the mid-18th Century stood nearby.

“What were you thinking, Max?” the elder Kleist demanded. “How could you have been so careless? For years I’ve been walking a tightrope. Not once have I teetered let alone fallen. And now…” He sighed and slipped a pack of North States from a pocket. Konrad favored the Finnish brand not only for their heady flavor, but also because the twelve-pack’s slim profile didn’t ruin the line of his bespoke suits. His gold lighter was engraved with a double-K monogram as were his cufflinks. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as if this would give him the strength to deal with the situation.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Max said, meeting his father’s gaze. His tone was respectful, not remorseful, and made it clear he wouldn’t be cowed. “I’ve done my best to live an exemplary life in the spirit of this family. I took every precaution, believe me.”

“Yes, we’re sure you did,” his mother said softly admonishing her husband with a glance. “Perhaps, it would have been wise to share this with us before today.”

“It wasn’t an oversight, Mother,” Max explained, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Eva and I thought it best to wait until the war was over and we knew what kind of a world we’d be living in before committing our hearts to it, or asking for your blessing.”

Gisela Kleist’s eyes were moist with empathy. “Of course, but with these…these sociopaths committing such unimaginable atrocities, it behooved you and this young lady to be more discrete.”

“Believe me, Mother, we were. I’m not even sure Professor Gerhard knew.”

“Then how?” his father asked.

“An informer,” Max replied. “Someone must’ve gone to the SS.”

“How many times have I said, trust no one but family,” his father said, dragging on his cigarette to contain his anger. “You didn’t see fit to take us into your confidence; but you shared this with someone else?”

Max nodded. “With Jake. Jake Epstein. But he would never…”

“You’re sure of that?” his father challenged. “No jealousy? No anger at a German aristocrat romancing a lovely Jewish girl—one he secretly covets?”

“Jake’s my best friend for God sake,” Max protested. “He is family to me.” He crossed to the fireplace, contemplating his father’s words; then flicked his cigarette into the flames. “Eva’s beautiful and smart. Every guy in school’s interested in her. But would Jake sacrifice himself and Eva too? Does that make sense? He’s got more personal integrity than anyone I know. It had to be someone else, someone at school, someone who saw us in a cafe, someone in Eva’s building.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Konrad Kleist conceded, softly. “Someone who was in trouble with the SS; who traded you for themselves or a family member. The problem is, our support for the resistance has been possible only because it’s been anonymous. We survived the White Rose tragedy, and so far so good with Red Orchestra; but this…” he paused, taking a moment to assess the consequences.

Red Orchestra was a network of anti-Nazi citizens from across Germany’s social, political and religious spectrum who helped to rescue Jews and others marked for death; and sought ways to turn the depressed German populace against the Führer whose raging propaganda speeches had restored their self-esteem and convinced them Germany had reclaimed its rightful place in the hierarchy of nations.

“…but this—” the elder Kleist resumed, deciding brutal honesty would serve him best, “—this endangers everything!”

Max was visibly stung. “I’m sorry. As I said, I did everything possible to protect you, and this family; and I’ll continue to do so.”

“It’s not that simple, Max. You see, I’m not one person. I’m three,” his father said enigmatically. “Yes, there are three Konrad Kleists: A German patriot who was horrified when this evil fanatic came to power; a traitor who is doing all he can to destroy him; and a war profiteer whose company the Führer holds in high regard.” He gestured to a wall of framed photographs. Among them were: Konrad Kleist with German business executives and industrialists. Kleist with European political leaders. The Kleists and their two young children at the Vatican with Pius XI and Munich’s Cardinal von Faulhaber an ardent supporter of the Führer. The Pontiff—who abhorred the Nazis but thought Communism to be a greater evil—was presenting the Kleists with medals commemorating the martyrdom of St. Thomas More, the English statesman and humanist whom he had canonized four centuries after his beheading in 1535 by order of Henry VIII.

The photograph Max was staring at, now, was of two men shaking hands in front of a blast furnace from which molten steel was pouring. One of them was his father. The other was Adolph Hitler. “I’ve always been proud of you, Dad,” Max said with an impish grin. “Almost every last one of you.”

Konrad Kleist raised an amused brow. “You’d be wise to keep your pride in check. Though your ancestors began as humble blacksmiths, the company they founded manufactures armor plate, weapons-grade bar stock, and steel sheeting able to withstand crushing ocean depths, not to mention the finest barbed-wire made in Germany. You see the dichotomy here?”

Max nodded grimly, then broke into an amused smile. “Though I do vaguely recall rumors that the armor plate seems a little less impenetrable as of late; the bar stock not quite weapons grade; the steel sheeting not up to crush depth specifications…”

A Cheshire grin tugged at the corners of Konrad Kleist’s mouth. “Really? And lo and behold the war will soon be lost; after which, all three of me plan to live a long and happy life with your mother, your sister and you…and your families, of course.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” his wife said with heartfelt conviction. “Germany will once again become a humane and civilized nation where science, music, literature and art flourish.” She stood and touched her son’s cheek, tenderly. “You’re in love with this girl, Eva?”

“Yes, Mother, I am. Deeply. She’s a very special person, not to mention a bright and caring doctor.”

“And what of her family?” his mother asked.

“They’re Galician but they live in Venice, now. In the Jewish ghetto. Ever since Mussolini fell and our troops occupied Italy, many of their neighbors have been arrested and sent to concentration camps.” Max paused, overcome by a sense of hopelessness. “We…We want to spend our lives together, raise a family, like you and dad.”

“That’s wonderful,” his mother said. “We’re very happy for you.” She glanced to her husband and prompted, “Aren’t we Konrad?”

“Of course we are,” Konrad replied, dutifully. He knew his wife was doing more than eliciting his support, and knew exactly what she wanted. His eyes drifted for a moment then, with an anxious drag of his cigarette, he said, “What I’m about to say, Max, must stay in this room. Though the records seem to have ‘somehow’ been lost, according to family lore, my great-grandmother on my father’s side was Jewish.”

Max felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He and his younger sister, Anika, were cared for by a Jewish nanny as children. Tovah Klausner was a nurturing woman who loved them as she would her own. By the time they had grown, she had become a member of the family and stayed on to run the household. Thanks to her, Max’s Yiddish was more than passable—a fact that deepened his friendship with Jake beyond their interest in orthopedic surgery which had initiated it—but this—this was shocking news. He looked to his mother, gauging her reaction. Her composed smile left no doubt it was neither shocking nor news to her.

“Of course, being one-eighth Jewish is the secret to my success in business!” his father went on laughing at the absurdity of the stereotype. “And to my demise if that weasel Himmler found out.”

“It’s Eva’s demise I’m worried about,” Max said his voice hoarse with anxiety. “Eva’s and Jake’s. They need a place to stay. They need false papers. We have to help them.”

“I don’t see how we can get involved,” his father said with finality. “Not directly. As you know, we do have certain connections that might be useful.”

Max scowled. “The resistance? Headquarters has been giddy over reports it’s been infiltrated. Besides, as a very bright person once said, trust no one but family,” Max added, smartly. “What about the lake house?” he went on, referring to the family’s chalet on Eibsee at the foot of the German Alps.

The lake country on the Austrian border north of Innsbruck was a year-round playground for the wealthy. Tennis, golf or water sports in the morning; skiing in Garmisch Partenkirchen, where the 1936 Winter Olympics were held, in the afternoon. Free of defense plants and military installations—other than border checkpoints and a contingent of mountain troops housed in what had been Olympic dormitories—the area wasn’t on the Allies’ target list.

“Eva and Jake could stay there,” Max concluded. “Until new passports and travel passes can be—”

“No,” his father said, sharply. “If they’re found there we’re all finished.”

“We have to do something,” Max protested. “We can’t just allow the SS to cart them off to a death camp. There must be—”

“No, Max. No. I don’t need any more phone calls in the middle of the night. You’re lucky I was able to keep you from being arrested. Major Steig came this close to charging you with violating the Nuremberg Laws, racial defilement, and bringing disgrace on the SS! Charges for which you could face a firing squad.”

Max shuddered visibly, then nodded. “Steig is an attack dog. A true believer. You can imagine my relief when he said I was being reassigned.”

“Reassigned to what?” his father asked.

Max shrugged. “My orders are being cut. I have to report to headquarters early tomorrow.”

“Some form of punishment,” his father speculated, grimly. “The front most likely.”

“The front…” his mother echoed with concern.

“Don’t worry, the war will be over before I ever get there.” Max hugged her, reassuringly, then smiled at a thought. “What about that cabin at the bottom of the gorge? It’s miles from our place; and it’s been abandoned for years.”

The elder Kleist grimaced. “No. No, that’s still too close for comfort.”

“Konrad, please,” Gisela Kleist implored. “Just for a short time, until my people can prepare their documents.”

Her husband winced, then nodded. “All right, but I don’t want to know which room they’re sleeping in,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I have to preserve some degree of plausible deniability.”

Max was smiling at his father’s joke when the doorbell rang. Anxious looks darted between them as the sound reverberated through the house. The dog got to its feet, and took up a position in the doorway that led to the corridor.

The housekeeper was replacing Christmas candles in the small chapel adjacent to the library. The perfectly scaled space with its straight-backed wooden pews and solemn stained glass windows was where Max and his sister Anika were baptized. A crucifixion by Cranach The Elder hung above the altar. A Madonna and child by Michael Pacher, and an Annunciation by Mathias Grunewald hung on the sidewalls. When the doorbell rang, Tovah left the chapel and hurried down the corridor toward the foyer.

The elder Kleist caught sight of her through the open doors of the library. “One moment, Tovah,” he called out with a glance to his wife. “Are we expecting anyone, Gisela?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Max?”

“It could be Eva and Jake. Professor Gerhard said he’d bring them here if he could.”

“You told them to come here?”

“Of course,” Max replied, angry at being chastised. “For obvious reasons, I’ve avoided inviting them to my home; but today I had no choice. They’re lives are in danger! They’ve nowhere else to go!”

“What if they’ve been caught?” his father asked, suddenly unnerved. “What if they were caught coming here, and talked?”

You really think it’s the Gestapo, his wife asked calmly.

“I’ve no idea,” Konrad replied as the doorbell rang again. “Sometimes they ring. Sometimes they knock. Sometimes they knock the door down.”

Gisela Kleist nodded resolutely, determining her strategy. If it was Himmler’s henchmen, she would remind them of Germany’s greatness, of its depth of character, of its soulful humanity; she would force them to acknowledge it; and dare them to destroy it. With quiet confidence, she went to the Bechstein, sat on the upholstered bench, and began to play. The room filled with the dream-like Adagio sostenuto of Beethoven’s Sonata #14 in C sharp minor, the Mondschein Sonate.

Konrad Kleist took a deep breath and went to see who was at the door.

The German Shepherd followed.